


Together Or Not At All

by seherrons



Series: The Epitome of Humanity (Geralt x Regis) [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Comfort, Dialogue Heavy, Dick Fondling, Friendship/Love, Kissing, M/M, One Shot, Sexual Content, post-Blood and Wine, post-DLC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-30 19:50:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11470494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seherrons/pseuds/seherrons
Summary: “It’s my job, Regis… protecting people from monsters. But when the people are the monsters, what then? Do I keep my neutrality? Stay out of it when I know I can do something to help? Or do I take the monster’s side – any side – in the hopes that everything’ll blow over soon enough and get back to normal so I can grab my pay and leave? When’s a witcher not a witcher?”Syanna’s death and Dettlaff’s disappearance has left Anna Henrietta shaken. Geralt, upon learning that he is no longer welcome in Toussaint, seeks to leave Corvo Bianco behind and once more return to the Path. He would have done so alone too had it not been for a welcome visit from an old friend – and with Regis’ company, the two come to terms with the events of the recent past, and what this holds for their future. And when Regis confides in Geralt something that leaves the witcher momentarily shaken, he tries to understand these feelings that the vampire has left him questioning. He soon realises that perhaps these feelings weren’t as one-sided as he thought.





	Together Or Not At All

The sun had just begun its slow descent through the sky by the time Geralt had deigned to return to the halls of Corvo Bianco. Above him, the temperate warmth of the dying rays above caressed the verdant rolling hills of Toussaint in its healthy springtime glow. As he ran his hand through Roach’s mane, the mare snorting lightly and tossing her head to arch her neck in enjoyment, he could only just discern the glimmer of the golden rays atop the distant towers of Beauclair as he gazed southward.

Around him, he heard the sounds of the estate’s workers proceeding with their daily evening rituals: wives and mothers gossiping in the herb garden said goodbye to one another, dogs barked happily as children giggled and raced around the well by the cellars and tired themselves out before dinner, and the men groaned in the fields and cursed their aching backs but congratulated each other on a hard day’s work. Roach paid no mind to it however, merely contenting herself with the bag of grain that the stable hand had laid out fresh for Geralt’s arrival from the city a half hour ago. The witcher had waved the young lad away after he had helped him unsaddle, giving a brief grunt of an explanation that he could take it from there, and he had since thus been attending to his horse as he had always done: alone, and with all the care that he could afford in rare moments such as these where he had no contracts to complete nor people’s pleas for help to answer.

He ran his hand back down Roach’s neck, a barely perceptible twitch of his lips gracing his scarred face as she shook her mane and bowed her head to nudge affectionately against his shoulder. Sparing a final once over of his horse, he stepped away and nodded to the children by the well and their mothers who had now started to guide them away to their homes. They returned the gesture with wide smiles and cheerful waves, something so different from the curses and pitchforks that he would often receive whilst travelling on the Path that even now – despite living in Corvo Bianco for the past few months – it remained something he knew he could never truly grow used to. Such thoughts were momentarily pushed to the back of his mind, however, the moment he crossed the threshold to the foyer of his estate and found Barnabas-Basil dutifully awaiting him by the head of the dining table.

“Welcome home, sir,” the majordomo greeted politely, stepping forward to take the twin swords the witcher had slung off his back and moving to then carefully place them with all manner of respect upon the weapon rack by the wall, “I trust you had a pleasant journey to the city?”

He didn’t receive an immediate response; rather, he turned his head, waiting patiently as Geralt first let out an indeterminate grunt and strode over towards the fireplace. The orange glow of the embers reflected off his golden pupils, Geralt spreading his hands outwards to savour in the welcome heat of the flames. He was glad for the warmth, as the last few nights had grown cold enough to chill his very bones.

“I guess,” he muttered at length. “Think it’ll be a long time before I head back there, though.”

That was all the reply he deigned to give at present, and following this there was a prolonged silence, broken only by the occasional crackling of the flames before him. He then heard a sigh, Barnabas-Basil taking a step forwards. Out of the corner of his eyes Geralt caught a solemn nod of understanding. He’d spoken about his trip to Beauclair to the majordomo just before he’d departed earlier that morning, and B.B. knew well what such a meeting in the palace would eventually mount up to.

“I shall send for a fresh bottle of Erveluce,” the man said presently, and to his credit his voice managed to remain as light and courteous as ever. He then swept his hand towards the adjoined room, from which the wholesome scent of Marlene’s cooking wafted in towards the living room, pulling a barely audible growl from Geralt’s stomach. He had not eaten since nightfall the previous day, and it was only now that he realised how hungry he really was. “Please, eat.”

Geralt chuckled wryly, pulling away from the fire and following B.B. towards the small table freshly laden with food.

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” He sat down, wasting no time tearing off a large chunk of crusty bread and dipping it into the broth of his stew. The rich taste of beef and vegetables exploded upon his tongue, and it took great effort not to groan his deepest satisfaction as he ravenously partook in the rest of his meal. He only paused to reach for the glass B.B. had poured him from the bottle of wine he’d gone to retrieve from the kitchen cellar, and merely shrugged when the majordomo had refused a second glass that Geralt had gone to offer him. The rest of the meal passed thusly: Geralt cleaning his bowl thoroughly, and draining the entire bottle of the estate’s finest as B.B. silently observed, an unmistakably morose expression in his bespectacled eyes despite all his attempts to appear as indifferent as possible.

When Geralt had at last finished, tipping his head back to drain the last of the wine from his glass, B.B. spoke.

“Shall I send word for the preparations to be completed by tomorrow morning?”

Geralt sighed, lifting a hand to run a palm across his brow. He was silent for a long time. The journey to Beauclair had been a taxing one that morning, and any reminder of what had since occurred he could do without. Besides, with the way things had turned out, he’d rather leave with a roaring hangover than a clear state of mind. As it was the pleasant burn in his throat from the wine was becoming even more pleasant the longer the seconds passed.

“No. Tomorrow afternoon. If I have to do this, I wanna do it on my own terms.”

B.B. gave pause, as if stopping himself from voicing his current train of thought. He instead cleared his throat, dropping his hands to clasp them behind his back.

“Of course, sir. Though if you will permit me to say so, I cannot help but wonder if this is wise?” The upwards lilt of his voice towards the end of his question gave clear indication of exactly how _unwise_ he thought Geralt was being. A faint snort from the witcher in return gave likewise indication that he was not the only one.

“Is it? Ah, what the hell. I know you’ll have everything ready by the morning anyway.” His voice gravelly, Geralt sighed and raised his eyes to focus unseeingly upon the opposite wall, where he had adorned the empty spaces with various pictures and other works of art he had purchased from street vendors in the capital; the glow from the fireplace cast flickering shadows which clung to the paintings and suits of armour in almost mesmerising patterns, with the last dying embers of the sun bleeding through the stained glass above the front door only adding to the considerably darkened mood.         

Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt watched B.B.’s visible struggle with words as the man tried – and failed – to think of something to say. Not that anything he said would have helped in the slightest. It was far too late to go back now – what was done was done, and now Geralt was paying the price. He had known this from the start and had accepted it, and he had made B.B. more or less do the same. So now, he allowed a grim smile to cross his lips as the majordomo merely elicited a sharp sigh, shaking his head and bowing curtly before making to leave the room.

“I shall be here if you need anything.” It was as good a goodbye as he was going to give, at least for now. He then left, closing the kitchen door behind him as he no doubt made to share a quick meal with Marlene as he did every night. Taking advantage of the silence, Geralt dropped his gaze from the wall, his eyes clouding over as he absentmindedly twirled the empty wine glass in his hand.

The meeting at the palace had managed to succeed where fighting monsters and facing the perils of a witcher’s life never could; it had unsettled him. Deeply. And for once, Geralt found that he truly had no idea what to do. He felt strange, foreign.

He stood up and strode to the nearby cabinet, pulling forth an old bottle of vodka that at this point remained half empty. Not bothering with the glass, he tipped his head back and drank it all.

 

*

 

The sun had long since set and Geralt had taken to poring through books and mementos in his room when he heard it; the sound of a sharp rap on wood as if someone had knocked upon the estate’s front door in a considerate hurry. Moments later, the sound of Barnabas-Basil’s footsteps could be heard echoing through the foyer as the majordomo answered the call. He paid it no mind, the witcher once more absorbing himself in the various tomes and letters he had managed to retrieve from ancient tombs and elven ruins lying along the banks of Toussaint and the mire of the swamps towards the north, the pages weathered and aged by the course of time and written in scripts and dialects of the Elder Speech far beyond Geralt’s comprehension.

He had made a note to himself to see about getting them translated at some stage; perhaps one of the bookkeepers in Novigrad would be able to assist him, or mayhap even Lafargue. The man had studied under an elven armourer after all, so there was a distinct possibility that he could have picked up various bits and pieces of the dialect from him. Geralt wondered if he would be able to make a quick stop by his shop in the city come morning before he left. The sound of footsteps drew nearer once again. Two sets, this time.

“Sir, there is a gentleman here who wishes to speak with you. He says he is a friend.”

Geralt lifted his head at that, his eyes narrowing slightly as he stood from his desk and strode towards his door, from behind which B.B.’s call had sounded. He’d only gotten so far as pulling the door open and taking a single step forward to identify the late night visitor when he had stopped short in his tracks, his eyes widening in instant recognition.

 “Regis?”

The answering grin on the newcomer’s face bore the faintest hint of sharpened teeth, and dark eyes softened in turn.

“Good evening, Geralt. I apologise for the late hour but I simply had to see you. I hope you don’t mind the intrusion.”

Hands outstretched and the only reply the vampire received was a surprised laugh from his oldest friend as Geralt wrapped his arms around him in an enthusiastic hug, a gesture immediately returned with vigour as Regis responded with a pleased chuckle and a gentle clap on the white haired man’s back. Watching this exchange and seeming satisfied that the visitor was indeed who he had claimed to be, B.B. bowed and left, closing the front door behind him to head to his rooms in the servants’ quarters in the estate grounds. It was only when the door had closed that Geralt pulled away, Regis doing likewise after tightening his hold around the man for but a moment.

Geralt’s grin remained plastered to his lips as he gripped Regis by the shoulders, running his eyes over his friend as if not believing that he was seeing him again. Truth be told, he had not been expecting to see him again for a very long time after they had last parted at the cemetery that night following the tragic events that had gripped Beauclair some weeks ago. Regis, ever perceptive, seemed to sense Geralt’s disbelief and merely stood there, reaching to lay a long nailed hand on Geralt’s own shoulder and offering a reassuring squeeze. His gaze softened yet again.

“Not at all… everything ok? Thought you were going after Dettlaff,” Geralt began, stepping back only to indicate with his free hand the chairs that were seated by the fireplace. Regis’ smile never faded as he bowed his head in a polite incline of thanks to the witcher and moved to take the seat shown to him. He laced his fingers upon his knees as he watched Geralt seat himself opposite.

It was then that his friend’s smile faltered, and Geralt felt his stomach inadvertently clench at the sheer worry he saw in the vampire’s dark gaze. The glow of the fire cast a healthy warmth to his otherwise deathly pale skin, but Regis never looked any older, nor his features more sallow and gaunt to the witcher as he did in that moment.      

Regis sighed.

“I was, but Dettlaff has made himself scarce. If he does not wish to be found, then not even I can hope to find him. No, Geralt… I came as soon as I could when I heard what had happened this morning.” He trailed off, levelling Geralt with a stare that rendered the witcher momentarily silent.

His stomach clenched inadvertently once again, until Geralt’s silence soon gave way to confusion.

“How’d you—” He stopped, his words swallowed up by a soft groan and an accompanying sigh of realisation. His mind flashed over the tiresome events that had occurred that day, and he knew the answer before he even finished his sentence. _Of course._

*

 

The sun had barely risen above the hilltops that morning when Geralt had woken from his restful sleep by the sound of knocking. He heard B.B’s footsteps on the landing, quick and alert despite the early hour as the majordomo went to answer the impatient thundering upon the door. Even with his witcher’s senses, he couldn’t tell the exact words that followed as B.B. conversed with whomever it was that deemed it appropriate to bother the estate at this ungodly hour, but he guessed from the tone of the voices speaking that it was a matter of grave importance.

He was out of bed and fully dressed, swords at the ready, within half a minute.

He had the door open just as B.B. stood there, hand poised to knock. He’d evidently startled the man somewhat too, judging by the brief look of surprise in his bespectacled eyes; surprise which quickly became replaced by an expression that could only be described as two parts concerned and one part uncertain. In short, it was an expression Geralt did not like in the slightest.

He’d pushed past B.B. without so much as a stop to listen to whatever it was the man was about to say, and came to an immediate halt in the middle of the foyer the instant he saw the man waiting for him at the door.

A long, ugly scar marred the right side of his face; cold blue eyes narrowed and a moustachioed lip curled into an abhorrent grimace of perpetual distaste at the sight of him. For a moment as he matched Damien de la Tour’s cold glare Geralt wondered how much the duchess had bribed him with in order to get him to ride to his doorstep to talk to him, considering the remarkably hostile terms they had last parted on over Syanna’s death. 

It almost brought a smile to his face.

Almost.

That was when he remembered that de la Tour had promised to kill him next time they met.

“Witcher,” de la Tour greeted icily, and if a frost could have blanketed the estate in such a manner that even the Wild Hunt would be proud of, it most certainly would have when blue eyes met slitted gold. Geralt arched a brow, crossing his arms over his chest.

“de la Tour.”

A vein visibly twitched in the ducal captain’s brow.

“Let us skip the pleasantries. I assure you I am not here of my own volition, but rather by the formal request of Her Illustrious Grace. You will follow me to the palace. Now.”

That caught Geralt’s attention.

“Why?”

“Your job is not to question, witcher, but to obey.”

Geralt stood his ground.

“I dunno if you’ve noticed but the duchess made it pretty damn clear she didn’t want anything to do with me when we last met. I find it hard to believe she’s suddenly changed her mind.”

“And believe me, I’d prefer it if she _still_ didn’t want anything to do with scum the likes of you,” came de la Tour’s seething response. He circled a hand around the pommel of his sword, and stepped back to allow Geralt through the doorway where the witcher could already see Roach saddled and waiting next to the captain’s horse by the stables. He inwardly cursed the stable hand.

“Now _move_.”

He did as he was told, begrudgingly allowing de la Tour to all but forcefully shove him forwards out the door. But for all his reluctance Geralt knew that it would be a suicide mission to go against Anna Henrietta’s beck and call, especially considering their last meeting and the murderous threats she had yelled herself hoarse at him with whilst she sobbed in Dandelion’s arms by Syanna’s tomb. The memory sat ill with him, and was one that he dearly wished he could erase utterly from his mind. He bore no love for Syanna, especially with her actions and her direct involvement with and cause of the horrific rampage that Dettlaff had unleashed upon the innocent citizens of Beauclair and the knights errant, but nevertheless her death was not in the contract. And in a comparison of the lesser of two evils, she was the greater.

He grabbed the reins and swung himself up into Roach’s saddle, a heavy sigh on his lips. He nudged her gently into a canter, taking after de la Tour’s dappled mare as the captain quickly took the lead down the path leading from the estate onto the roads marking the ducal highway.

The journey was a long one and the time passed in silence, the trotting of hooves against cobbled stones and sandy stretches of pavement the only noise to break the monotony of the road. The morning sun bore down on their backs and reflected off the shining coats of their horses and the steel of their swords and armour, and as they travelled Geralt honed his senses, listening out for the chatter of peasants and vineyard workers as they passed winery after winery. He made mental note of the rumours of monster sightings near the Gorgon foothills, and amused himself somewhat at the rather lascivious love affair between a vintner’s wife and not one, but three of his elder brothers and a younger sister.

In doing so he kept himself occupied well enough until he saw the towering walls of the capital before him; the palace of Beauclair the very height of the lofty city both a breathtaking masterpiece of elven architecture and a foreboding presence all in one. The Cooper’s Gate was busy this time of morning too, and they would have had difficulty guiding their horses through the bustling throng of people and activity had palace messengers not raced out before them announcing to the nobles and city folk to make way for the ducal guard. Roach faltered and uttered a panicked snort at three children who had dashed right in front of her in their hurry to get past, and only calmed when Geralt gently ran his hand down her neck, murmuring lowly to the mare to settle down. His fingers were arched and ready to form the sign of Axii after that mishap, but thankfully he didn’t need to use it as the pair made their way further up the winding streets of the capital.

Around them Geralt watched as people sang and danced in the square, and merchants peddled their wares to noblemen and ladies. The scent of freshly cooked bread and homemade stews assaulted his nose when they passed taverns and restaurants, and his stomach growled hungrily in protest when a particularly intoxicating aroma of roasted quail drew his attention to The Pheasantry. He gazed wistfully upon the tavern, not having eaten a single morsel since his dinner the night before. Unfortunately he knew that de la Tour would not be so kind enough as to let him stop by for a quick bite to eat, and he made a note to himself to see if he could pop in for a bit after the business at the palace was over. They took another turn through the streets, taking them further and further away from the quail that Geralt so dearly wished to eat, and music filtered through his ears when they passed yet another tavern – a small place that was considerably lesser well known than The Pheasantry, but one that was notorious for its late night gwent tournaments and daytime competitions. The Bread & Wine had become somewhat of a favourite of Geralt’s during his reasonably short few months here, and he had made it a habit to stop by every so often to try his luck against the new hopefuls eager to make their names known in the fickle world that was the national gwent board of fame.

Even now he could hear the musicians with their jaunty tunes, and the raucous laughter, cheers and insults that so often accompanied a match, and concluded that someone trying out the new Skellige deck had just “bumbotched Emhyr in the dimple sack”, going by the enthusiastic howls of one of the men playing. He couldn’t keep the twitch of a smile from his lips even as de la Tour turned his head and harshly barked at him to keep up.

Presently they dismounted their horses, ducal guards and page boys striding up to take their horses when they reached the bridge leading to the palace grounds. Geralt caught the glares thrown his way from the guardsmen standing by the bridge, each of them unmoving and unblinking as he strode past following de la Tour. He ignored them.

“Where’s the duchess?” He asked de la Tour instead, looking at the back of the man’s head. From where he was standing he could see the extent of the injuries collected from his run-in with the vampires on the streets of Beauclair those few weeks ago; the scar along his right ear and cheek had paled considerably in colour to a soft pink, but the skin around the claw marks and the teeth marks that tore away at the lobe of his ear was still grotesquely inflamed. The captain turned his head and Geralt calmly met his cold stare.

“Awaiting you in the palace courtyard. It shouldn’t take long,” he sneered. Geralt didn’t bother to ask him to elaborate on that, because those words all but confirmed the fears that the witcher had been harbouring since that fateful night. His only response was a sigh, and he averted his gaze to look over the bridge to the verdant hills and valleys of Toussaint around him. He could see the vineyards upon the hilltops below, and the picturesque lakes and villages dotting the landscape and the forests. He never claimed to be remotely sentimental, instead favouring to lay all the blame on his mutations for stripping him of that particular emotion, but the more he looked down below and took in the sights, sounds and smells of this land he had only just begun to truly call home, he would be lying if he could just stand there and continue to say that he wasn’t feeling the painful tugs of sentimentality in the slightest.

_Damn. I’m getting old._

The palace grounds rose up around them the further they walked, and the clank of armour rustled around them as ducal guardsmen marched to and fro. The towers glistened in the morning sunlight and the musical chirp of birds sounded overhead as they approached the small gathering of knights and nobles awaiting them with sombre expressions under the courtyard gazebo. They parted when they drew near, and Geralt saw first the dazzling array of jewels around a swan-like neck, and the thin figure draped in silks of blue and black which complimented the fine curls of her honey coloured hair before he saw the narrowed blue eyes and the downward curve of plump feminine lips as Anna Henrietta stepped forward.

Overhead he thought he heard a raven’s caw. It was drowned out by the thinly veiled anger in the duchess’s accented voice.

“Geralt of Rivia,” she announced when he stepped closer upon her gesture for him to do so. She did not wait for him to speak. “We trust you are aware of the circumstances by which we have summoned you here.”

He nodded.

She turned to her knights and ladies in waiting.

“You all recall the events which unfolded here in Toussaint two weeks ago. A vampire unleashed his bloodlust upon the innocent citizens of Beauclair, and murdered, in cold blood, all who stood in his path. Why? Because this witcher, Geralt of Rivia, was tasked with the simple contract of bringing us the Beast’s head.” She stopped pacing and turned her narrowed eyes once more upon him. There was hatred in that gaze.

“He failed to do so. But not only did he fail in the task with which we called him here, he let him walk free. The same creature who had killed countless times before, crippling our knights errant and therefore the safety of the entire nation.” She held up her hand to silence Geralt, who had made to open his mouth to speak. She turned her back on him, instead striding towards the balcony overlooking the city below. She paused a moment, clearly making a point to direct her gaze towards those city streets which even now continued to show the signs of fighting and the blackened scorches of fire and ash.

The crowd tittered and cursed his name. He clenched his hands by his sides.

“I feel the loss of the people. They scream day after day, night after night for justice. I too feel this need – for even after I ordered him to keep her safe, he has killed again, he and this Beast. He ensured the death of my sister, my precious Syanna…”

She turned back to face them, and her eyes were reddened with tears.

“You killed her, witcher,” she whispered. “And yet you still tried to claim she was the one at fault, that she was the reason this started. That she would see this all done just to strike at _me!”_

The gathered knights tightened their hands upon their swords. Geralt did nothing.

“We have been patient for too long. The city mourns, and we demand that you answer for your crimes. Henceforth, let it be known before the knights and nobles of the court that you are banished forthwith from Toussaint. We revoke your deed to the estate of Corvo Bianco, and formally order both you and all your possessions to be removed from the state by dawn tomorrow. We do not care where you go. We do not care for your thoughts on the matter. Should my knights see you roaming these lands again, you will be executed on the spot.”

The silence that followed felt as if the headsman’s axe was lowered to his neck already.

He knew better than to try to argue his case, considering the duchess was a woman known to harbour a great temper at the best of times – he’d already seen that firsthand after all – but he also knew that he was being judged unfairly. And like dealing with a peasant cheating him out of half the agreed sum for a contract, he raised his voice and spoke up.

“Your Grace—”

“Silence. I do not wish to hear from you anymore.”

He stopped. The duchess sighed, lifting a dainty hand to press against her brow, closing her eyes in silent distress. Her ladies in waiting rushed forwards as if to console her but she waved them off. When she opened her eyes again the coldness within them was so great that Geralt felt as if a chill had shot down his very spine.

“Leave.”

He faltered, then swallowed, bowing his head in a curt nod.

As he retreated from the palace he only barely registered a raven alighting itself from the branch of a nearby tree, cawing as it went.

 

*

 

“Shoulda known that bird was there for a reason,” Geralt mused tiredly, lifting his head from the fire to gaze once more at Regis. His friend merely offered an apologetic smile, but his dark eyes were full of sympathy, and if the witcher wasn’t mistaken, something saddened as well. “How many more of them have you got out there spying on me?”

Regis leant forwards further in his chair, clasping his hands together in front of him before idly fanning them out towards the flames, as if warming the palms of his hands.

“Not as many as you may think, but enough,” he answered quietly, and looked back at the witcher. “I have good reason to, my friend. Dandelion could only help you so far and it was only a matter of time before the duchess rescinded her offer of hospitality. We _were_ responsible in our own way for Syanna’s death, and Dettlaff is free. You cannot possibly look at an impulsive and emotionally driven ruler such as Anna Henrietta and not think she could let this slide?”

Geralt remained silent, dropping his eyes to the flames once more. Regis’ expression softened.

“After all that’s happened these past few months, I feel I have the right to look out for you. Call it a duty, if you must. I’ve spent too long in the dark after Vilgefortz to suddenly be reunited with my oldest and dearest friend, only to see him taken away again by a young duchess’s fickle whims.”

Geralt’s lips twitched into a faint smile, as did Regis’ own when he saw the reaction his words awarded him.

“Never thought I’d be grateful for someone wanting to keep me away from a woman’s whims.”

Regis tilted his head back and laughed throatily. Geralt’s smile widened, the sight warming him to the core. He then watched as Regis, still chuckling, leaned down and reached into the medical bag he wore at his waist. The sound of a glass-like clinking, followed by the tell-tale slosh of liquid gave it away almost instantly; Geralt could feel himself salivating before his friend even lifted the flask fully out of the bag.

“A snifter, Geralt?” Regis asked, offering a conspiratorial wink in the witcher’s direction. Geralt held his hand out.

“Don’t need to ask me twice.”

The vampire grinned, fangs and all, and threw the flask into Geralt’s open hand. He sat back, watching the man twist the cap and down two, three mouthfuls of mandrake distillate, and allowed himself to run his eyes over his friend. He was glad he’d brought along more than one flask, gauging by the way Geralt so eagerly drank. The day’s events had left their mark – perhaps even a permanent one – on the witcher, and his chest tightened at the sight of it. His pale skin had slipped ever deeper into a ghostly pallor, and his cat-like eyes bore darkened rings as if he hadn’t slept in days. His shoulders, once proud and held high to bear the weight of his swords, were sagged and slumped over as he leant forward like that one familiar weight had been removed, and another much heavier and considerably more foreign had taken its place.

Regis recognised it immediately; it was the weight of a responsibility not of the witcher’s way of life, of dealing with monsters and protecting the people, but the responsibility of his actions, his choices that had led to this moment. He wasn’t proud. He was rocked deep to the core, suffering the consequences that could have so easily been avoided if he simply hadn’t stuck to his moral code for once, of choosing the lesser evil over the greater despite knowing _exactly_ what that would have cost him. Regis was grateful, of course he was, that Geralt had seen just like him that Dettlaff _could_ be saved in the end, but to have a young woman – no matter who she was – pay with her life without being given a chance to atone for her ways, or to be offered at least a shred of hope for reconciliation with the one person who still loved her despite all that had transpired… well, he felt and truly understood Geralt’s pain. Deeply.

He raised his hand and took the flask Geralt held out to him.

“Damn. Forgot how much I missed that,” the witcher sighed, smacking his lips after wiping his mouth upon the back of his sleeve. He could feel the burn in his throat and the sweet taste of the distillate caress his tongue, which felt lighter, looser in his mouth. With a wry chuckle he mused to himself that he should be careful how much he drank of that – otherwise he’d be spilling secrets to his friend he’d sooner rather forget. Not that he felt he had anything to hide, given how Regis probably knew all of it anyway. Damn birds.

Regis smiled, raising his flask as if in a toast to the man before drinking his own fill.

“Always happy to be of service.”

And so the next few minutes passed in companionable silence, the fire crackling before them as they passed the flask from one to another, drinking deeply and simply relaxing in the relative comfort of the moment. Regis had declined Geralt’s offer of food, but helped himself to some small helpings of cheese and bread regardless when Geralt brought the plate over – Marlene having left some in the kitchen for him before retiring to her rooms for the night.  

The flask was almost empty when Regis quietly spoke again.

“Have you informed your staff? Your majordomo is quite attached to you if I’m not mistaken.”

Geralt nodded, rubbing his brow and idly picking at the last remaining roll of bread on the plate.

“Yeah. B.B. knew as soon as de la Tour arrived this morning. He’ll probably be up all night and would have told the rest of them when he went out.”

Regis nodded. He watched Geralt’s face change from out the corner of his eye; a melancholy look soured his expression. He was aware that Geralt knew that he was watching him, but the witcher simply made no comment.

Another minute of silence passed and Geralt reached out, dashing the fire with a shot of Igni to stoke the flames that had begun to lessen.

Then he finally cracked.

“Wanna hear something funny?”

Regis inclined his head in affirmation. Geralt downed another gulp of mandrake.

“When I was in Beauclair this morning I realised something. This… this place, the people… it’s always a piece of shit seeing how the choices you make come back to bite you on the ass sooner or later. Mutations stripped me of my emotions – shoulda done, anyway. They screwed up with that big time because I was looking around and it _hurt_. Right here,” he gestured to his chest and took another swig. His hands were trembling. “Not used to feeling like that. Only other time I have was when… I’ve come to like it here, Regis. It’s nice. Never had a place to call a proper home before, not even Kaer Morhen. It’s far from what I’d consider _perfect_ but… maybe it doesn’t need to be.”

“Even though Yennefer is no longer with you?”

It was an honest question, and one that deserved an honest answer. Geralt looked at his friend who was watching him with a carefully guarded, though understanding expression.

“I don’t know.” It was the truth. “It’d feel different if she were here, or Triss... a different _kind_ of different… I don’t know how things would’ve turned out then. But I think what I have here, right now… I’d enjoy it more. Am enjoying it more.” He threw his hands up, visibly growing uncomfortable at trying to articulate his thoughts. Regis nodded, a knowing smile meeting his lips though he was careful not to show it when Geralt turned his head away momentarily.

“You spoke of one other time where you had felt something similar. If you don’t mind my asking… when did this disarming blow to your fragile inner psyche occur?”

Geralt threw him a look that Regis couldn’t resist smirking at.

“Fuck off, Regis.”

The vampire flashed yet another fanged grin. Geralt chuckled, relaxing back into his chair and passing his friend the flask which Regis took and drained off.

“If you must know, seeing one of my best friends getting burnt to a crisp when there was fuck all I could do about it sprang to mind.” No sooner had he said that had Regis blinked, staring at Geralt with a look that the witcher couldn’t entirely place. He ignored it for the moment and changed the subject.

“I’ve grown old.” Regis cleared his throat softly.

“As have we all, my friend.”

Geralt shook his head.

“I never used to care so much about choices. Used to be real simple on the Path. Find a contract, kill the monster, get fleeced out of half the pay… ride onto the next town and it’d start all over again. It was when I met Dandelion, Milva, Cahir, Angoulême… you… I realised something. Couldn’t be truly neutral anymore, as much as I wanted to. Paid more attention to doing the right thing. Met friends who I’d have for the rest of my life… and they kicked me in the ass when I needed it most.”

Regis laughed. The way Geralt’s golden eyes softened and seemed to intensify in their deep colour by the glow of the fire as he talked about each and every one of them was not lost on the vampire; indeed, there were very few things Regis loved seeing more. It stirred a dull ache in his chest, one which was not so dissimilar from the pain that Geralt had just finished describing.

He didn’t even bother to hide how intensely he was studying Geralt’s face when the witcher turned to lock eyes with him again.

“And because of that… can’t help but wonder if I did the right thing. With Dettlaff… Syanna… made lots of choices in my life, some bad, most good… but nothing like that. I let a higher vampire walk free with just a damn warning under his belt even after he’d killed all those people in Beauclair, no matter if he was blackmailed into it from the very start or not. I let a young woman die in his place, a girl who was behind it all, despite being _ordered_ by the damn duchess and her _sister_ to keep her alive! It’s my job, Regis… protecting people from monsters. But when the people _are_ the monsters, what then? Do I keep my neutrality? Stay out of it when I know I can do something to help? Or do I take the monster’s side – any side – in the hopes that everything’ll blow over soon enough and get back to normal so I can grab my pay and leave? When’s a witcher not a witcher?”

Regis shook his head, reaching out to clasp a hand around Geralt’s own as the man made to stoke the fire once more. Geralt didn’t move, but his eyes narrowed in on the hand resting atop his as Regis offered it a comforting squeeze. Presently, after what looked to be a moment of internal confliction, he returned the gesture.

“Oh, my dear Geralt,” Regis sighed. “I do believe this is the most I’ve ever heard you deliberate so strongly over something.”

His quip was well-received, Geralt’s posture slackening and the beginnings of a tired smile once again forming on his lips. Running his thumb atop Geralt’s knuckles, Regis continued.

“I cannot begin to claim that I fully understand the thoughts running in your head, or the taxing life of a day in the witcher’s trade, but what I _do_ know I shall tell you now if you will so permit. From the perspective of your friend, a higher vampire, and one of the monsters you so readily hunt as soon as a human life comes into the equation—” he shook his head to stop Geralt from opening his mouth to argue that part, “—what you did was not only difficult, but demonstrated an extraordinary amount of compassion and empathy so rarely attributed to others of your kind. Truly, you are more prone to emotion than you claim to admit.

“You saw the best in Dettlaff when others would have immediately taken to the sword. You saw that he was a man, though largely emotionally driven and quick to anger, that hurt and killed others despite his attempts to understand human life and survive in this strange world that is not our own when one he loved was threatened. And that, I think, is exactly what stayed your hand. His ability to _love_. Whether it was the few friends he had made; the young boy he had saved, de la Croix, and yes, Syanna, the love of his life... to thus kill one whom he had viewed as the apple in his eye for so long, a member of his pack, it crushed him no matter what she had done to break that trust and manipulate him in the first place. And you allowed him to leave.”

Geralt remained silent, watching Regis intently, almost unblinkingly. Whether he was aware of it or not, his hand had tightened around the vampire’s own.

“I followed him to as far as the outskirts of Maribor when he had disappeared, effectively giving me the slip and making me lose his trail. I didn’t attempt to find him again; he knows what he must do to better accommodate himself to the human way of life, and he must do it on his own. That night in Beauclair taught him that. I fear I may have also contributed to his suffering here in Toussaint. If I hadn’t so earnestly told him how to do this, how to do that… he would have found it much easier to acclimatise himself to his surroundings without having someone constantly looking over his shoulder. Regardless, he is gone, and he is willing to make a difference, make a stand and start over. And it was all because _you_ let him, Geralt. You gave him a second chance when no other human would have.

“You know, I see many similarities between you and Dettlaff,” and here Regis’ eyes crinkled as his grin grew wide at Geralt’s obvious confusion and perhaps mild annoyance at that comparison, “you know you are different. You wander the streets and see nothing but scorn. Your friends are far and few, but you remain ever thankful for their loyalty and their willingness to stay by your side. When you love it is something fierce, and when something threatens those under your charge – be it Syanna or Ciri – you throw caution to the wind and remain willing to do absolutely everything it takes to see them safe.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” When Geralt spoke his voice was gruff and oddly strained with the effort of keeping silent. His eyes bore an unreadable expression. Regis merely blinked at him.

“It is,” he answered, and his voice was serious and betrayed no air of insincerity. “Because those are the qualities that drew me to you in the first place, and made me travel readily alongside you after the night we first met in Fen Carn. And I’d be willing, more than willing, to do so again. I’m more thankful than you can possibly ever know.”

Geralt was utterly speechless. Where normally he would answer with a mere nod or a grunt of affirmation, to now feel his mind drawn to an absolute blank, to hear such words of praise and encouragement of the decisions made was an experience that was entirely new. He felt his chest tighten, constrict like the claws of some night-dwelling thing had grabbed hold of him and would never let go. But where those claws would have hurt, these ones felt remarkably warm. It reminded him much like how he had felt for the first time upon seeing Regis again in that Beauclair warehouse after all those years, very much alive and well despite the regenerating hole in his chest courtesy of Dettlaff, and his fateful encounter with Vilgefortz.

“I…” _don’t know what to say_ , he meant to finish. But he couldn’t. His throat felt too dry.

Regis merely consoled him by smiling, allowing his fangs to show through once again, and he brought his free hand over to rest with the other atop Geralt’s own.

“In short, it wasn’t about staying neutral or taking the monster’s side… because that is simply untrue. You chose to be _right_. Everyone has the ability to change, and though Syanna’s death was unfortunate and the very least of your intentions – nay, in fact wasn’t even your fault – you proved yourself to be a man who saw hope in someone where others would have given up long ago. And just that one shred of hope in one single person can make all the difference in the world. I do sincerely believe that you shall never hear of Dettlaff again, because he has learnt the error of his ways and is fully intending to atone. As for Syanna… her hatred had grown the better of her. Even if she had lived and had learnt to forgive her sister… I do not think that that alone would be enough to fully heal the blackness in her heart. Granted, I feel she would have indeed stilled her hand and her blade, but that would not change the fact that she would continue to live as an outcast in her own kingdom; the prejudice against her and her birth still runs strong in the veins of the people of Toussaint. I have seen many such cases similar in nature in my years in Dillingen, when I treated the sick and wounded. Such deep hatred often sowed more death and destruction than someone who was merely caught in the crossfire, as it were.”

“Dettlaff being caught in the crossfire here in your analogy.”

“Exactly so.”

There was a silence. The flames licked hungrily at the last remnants of the firewood in the grate, though given another few minutes the fire would have died down completely. Geralt leant forward, posture hunched. The weight of the world once again on his shoulders, Regis observed.

“You always did know what to say to make me feel better,” the witcher mused drily.

“I would hope that as a friend that would be entirely the point.”

“Not always. Dandelion’s more trouble than he’s worth.”

Regis chuckled.

“Ah he does his best, I’m sure. Dandelion _does_ have talent, but perhaps it lies more so in other areas. Helping free you from that prison and persuading the duchess to hold off on your immediate execution, for example.”

Geralt turned his head away.

“Yeah. Rather not think about that right now.”

Regis frowned, tensing and immediately withdrawing his hands.

“I am sorry, Geralt…” And he was. Geralt shook his head, waving off the apology and standing from his seat. He lifted his arms above his head and stretched, rolling his shoulders and tilting his neck.

“Don’t be. Not your fault.” He then turned back to face his friend, and the look in his eyes was honest. “Don’t think anyone likes to think about how long they spent behind bars. Not my first time, after all.”

Regis kept silent, knowing pain when he saw it no matter how well disguised it was. He heaved a long and heavy sigh, standing up from his own seat and straightening his tunic.

“I wanted to get you out of there the instant they brought you in,” he murmured quietly when Geralt had taken a few steps in the opposite direction, heading towards the dining table. The man paused in his steps, his sensitive hearing picking up each of Regis’ words regardless. “But I couldn’t. I didn’t think the guards, let alone the duchess, would take too kindly to you suddenly disappearing overnight. It would have only put you in further danger.”

Geralt turned around.

“I know,” and he nodded. “I’m glad you waited. Didn’t put yourself at risk again that way.”

This time the silence that followed was an awkward one. Thankfully Geralt had once more demonstrated his ability to make light of the situation and extended a hand towards the front door.

“Getting late out there. How about going for a walk with me?”

Regis was thankful for the change in subject and accepted without a moment’s hesitation.

 

*

 

The hour had indeed grown late when they walked side by side through the winding pathways of the estate, their strides languid and at ease. The moon had risen high, painting the darkened landscape in a shroud of mottled silvery blue. A chill had grasped the valley that Corvo Bianco was nestled in, and Geralt fought off the goosebumps that threatened to break out over his skin. Regis was clearly unaffected by the temperature, and merely quirked his lips in an amused grin at Geralt’s noble attempts to not draw attention to himself as he tried to rub his arms without making it overly obvious.

However he was by no means heartless, and offered Geralt another flask of mandrake to which the witcher chuckled and took from him, downing another hearty swig. The alcohol coursed through him, giving him that familiar loosened tongue sensation in his throat once more, and he savoured the warmth that settled deep within his belly. They passed by the workers’ quarters, where the faint sounds of laughter and conversation could be heard from within a few of the houses. B.B. was nowhere to be seen, so Geralt surmised that the man had indeed retired to his rooms instead of staying up for the night as he had previously thought.

A dog nearby had settled back on its haunches, sniffing the air and whimpering ever so slightly when Regis and Geralt passed, the animal no doubt picking up Regis’ scent in the air and knowing instinctively his true nature. The pair ignored it, both of them having become quite used to it over the years.

“I must say, you’ve done well for yourself here,” Regis announced when they paused by the tree resting atop a small hillock at the back of the estate, one which was elevated enough so as to provide an expansive view of the surrounding housing, land and vineyards. He took the flask of mandrake from Geralt and took a sip, savouring the warmth of the brew himself and smacking his lips in appreciation.

Geralt nodded, crossing his arms over his chest as he surveyed Corvo Bianco under the moonlight.

“Like to think so. Knew deep down when the duchess gave me the deed I wouldn’t be able to stay here permanently… but it was nice to sleep in a room I didn’t have to pay for. Or _a_ room, in general.” He took the bottle from Regis again and thanked him as he drank.

“Yes, I must admit I’m somewhat envious. All that time in the cemetery and I could have stopped by here every so often.”

Geralt grinned.

“Tried to tell you you were being too cliché with that one, Regis.”

Regis laughed, turning his head and smiling widely at the witcher beside him.

“I don’t always make it a habit of sleeping amongst the dead, I assure you.”

“Right. Just so happens that’s where a lot of mandrake grows, yeah?”

“Quite.”

They broke off into chuckles, the vampire and monster-slayer laughing freely alongside one another upon the hilltop. He was glad he had suggested the walk, the cool air and the mandrake cordial doing wonders to lighten Geralt’s considerably darkened mood. Of course he also owed a lot of that to his company, too. In fact, Regis was the main reason why his mood had improved considerably over these past few hours. Even if it weren’t for the weather and the alcohol, having Regis here would be enough. His smile softened and he tilted his head back, eliciting a long sigh. It would be dawn before too long. Probably another five hours or so, give or take.

If he felt Regis’ eyes on him all the while he didn’t comment.

“When are you due to leave?”

Geralt turned at Regis’s soft inquiry. When he saw the vampire’s expression he faltered for a moment. He looked serious; his pale face cast in shadow from the tree above, yet his eyes shone ever so faintly in the dark much like Geralt’s own. In them he could see a solemn gaze, deep and bearing some inner turmoil that his friend had no doubt been trying to suppress for a while now. It was funny how the night revealed many things one would never see during the day.

“Dawn.” He watched Regis nod as if to himself, then the vampire turned his head to gaze back out across the estate. Looking at his profile, Geralt could see the slight narrowing of his eyes and the downwards turn of his lips.

“And where will you go? What’s next for the famed Geralt of Rivia?”

Geralt snorted.

“Save the theatrics, Regis,” he chastised, though not unkindly. He leant his back against the bowed tree trunk, running a hand through his loose hair and idly scratching his chin in thought after leaving the now empty bottle of mandrake on the ground. “Dunno for sure yet. Probably head north, Novigrad first. Should stop by and see how Dandelion and Zoltan are doing. I’d be surprised if they haven’t somehow managed to burn their tavern down between the two of them,” he finished with a dry chuckle. Regis hummed, apparently not being in the mood to jest.

“What’s wrong?”

Regis shook his head, waving off Geralt’s concern.

“Nothing, my friend. I apologise. I was merely contemplating something of minor importance.”

“Can’t be that minor.” But Geralt didn’t press any further. “What about you, then? Where’re you gonna end up after I leave?”

Instead of getting an immediate response like he was expecting, Geralt was surprised to find that Regis was silent a long moment before clearing his throat.

“Ah. And we come to the very matter I was deliberating,” the vampire answered slowly. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and his long hands tightened subconsciously around the folds of his tunic. When he eventually decided to elaborate, Geralt could tell that he was choosing his words carefully. “We shall see by the end of tonight.” Geralt blinked. Regis held up a hand, silently informing him that he hadn’t finished yet.

“I have kept track of you these past few weeks and returned here to Toussaint as soon as my ravens passed on the news to me regarding the duchess’s decision, this you know. I was… hoping that, should it not be outside the bounds of what you had planned for your journey, you would allow my companionship on the road.” He turned his head and his lips had quirked upwards in the barest hint of a smile. “Just like old times.”

It took Geralt a moment to register what had been said. Then his eyes widened. 

“What? Regis, of course! Don’t even have to ask. I’d be more than glad to have you along.” In fact the more he thought of it, the more Geralt found himself greatly pleased by the prospect of having someone to travel with once more on the Path, especially the man who was his dearest friend. He was hoping for it in fact, the thought popping up once or twice within his head during the course of their conversation by the fireplace that evening. But when Regis continued to watch him with that guarded expression, Geralt saw that that was not the only thing on the vampire’s mind he had meant to ask.

“Oh Geralt,” he whispered, and he sighed. “How you jump to the notion. It warms my heart so much my fangs are positively aching right now.”

Geralt didn’t smile; Regis was clearly still bothered by something.

“There was… another matter I would also like to address. One that I have put off as best I could until this moment. I realise that I will be treading on thin ice enough as it is when I go any further with this roguish train of thought, but if I do not say it now it shall eat away at me until I will be forced to leave your side again. It is, I must confess, for purely selfish reasons that I continue to keep an eye on you. I know you dislike being watched, but my concern for your wellbeing runs too deep for me to promise against such extreme measures…” Regis closed his eyes, visibly swallowed, and turned to face Geralt directly. When he looked into the witcher’s cat eyes his expression was open, letting all the emotions he’d been keeping bottled up rise fully to the surface. What he saw damn near took Geralt’s breath away.

“When I parted with Dettlaff it was a constant battle with myself every day to not turn back to Toussaint. At the time I didn’t understand what the need was. I thought perhaps that it was the exhilaration of finally being reunited with the witcher I gave no second thought to joining when I first met him. Truly, travelling with you and the rest of our friends was the most exciting thing to have happened to me in… well… centuries. But the more I thought about it… the more I centred my mind on the events that had occurred, I found myself drawn more and more to, let us say… one thing in particular.

“I can only describe it best by saying that when you were speaking earlier about… that hurt, right here,” he pointed to his chest, “I knew at once what you were referring to. I feel that every day. It is a constant, aching sensation that consumes my thoughts until I find it hard to think. Which, I must confess, is another of the reasons why I made sure to bring along more than one bottle of distillate tonight.”

He looked as if he was set to take a step closer, his hands twitching as if in the urge to reach out, to grasp onto something. He did neither. He looked even paler under the moonlight, if possible.

“Further analysis of my thoughts thus led me to a rather disconcerting, though admittedly expected, realisation. And looking further back into my memory, it is something I have carried within me for almost the entire length of time that I have had the utmost pleasure of knowing you. Granted, it was less apparent then. But still there nevertheless. So when you had appeared here in Toussaint… when the duchess had thrown you into prison… when she had effectively thrown you out of her lands… the hurt intensified so much that I could no longer sit by, nor bear it. Geralt, I—”

“Regis.” Dark eyes lifted up to lock onto golden yellow when Geralt interrupted, saving his friend the trouble of tripping over his words. He sighed, running a hand across his face and taking a moment to compose himself. He knew exactly what Regis was trying to say. The problem now was how to go about it. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were in love with me.”

Regis locked eyes with him once more. To his credit, he didn’t once falter.

“Is that so hard to believe?” He whispered.

And that was just it.

“No.” Regis looked perturbed at that; Geralt’s blunt admission did nothing in terms of giving away a sense of what he was really thinking. “No, it isn’t.”

“I… see.” The vampire shifted his stance yet again, and for the first time tonight he looked uncomfortable. “Forgive me Geralt, but I was under the impression that I had perhaps hidden it better than that. I feel a blow to my confidence.”

When Geralt still didn’t reply, Regis grew visibly agitated.

“Is that it? I would have expected some kind of harsh reprimand by now, or a… a comment leading somewhere along the lines of needing to hastily return to the wide open arms of two very particular sorceresses.”

At the mention of those sorceresses, Geralt spurred himself into a hasty reply, his mind finally having caught up with him enough to voice a reasonably suitable response.

“What? Regis, no, I just… I’m not good with… with _this_ —” he waved his hands, gesticulating as if in some hopes of conveying the message he was trying to get across. Rather unsuccessfully, too. But that just proved the point he was trying to make. Fortunately, Regis knew him perhaps even better than Geralt knew himself at this point.

“With emotion? Hm, yes. The exact excuse you resort to when you’d rather not talk about something.” He drew a lengthy sigh. “I apologise, Geralt. What I said was out of line. I trust it shall not hamper our friendship, for that at least I do so very dearly wish to keep.”

He made to turn away. Geralt could have kicked himself. Sadly, conversations like this of any kind were not his strong suit.

“Regis, wait—”

“Geralt, please. I know full well I’ve just landed you in a rather sticky situation, and no one needs to shun myself more than I do. I only thought it prudent to let you know _exactly_ what was on my mind, given that you had allowed me to travel alongside you once more.” Here Regis turned his head, gazing coolly at the witcher from over his shoulder. “I am a firm believer in the rather traditional understanding that friends should not keep things from one another after all, as you so well know given how I immediately owned up to and revealed my true nature so shortly after having first met you, despite knowing your profession.”

“Regis, that’s not what I meant.”

An eyebrow arched.

“Really? What, then, could you have meant, my dear witcher?”

Geralt tried to form a cohesive train of thought, but the more he stood there, the more he realised he couldn’t. Did this news shock him? Yes, it did. But was it expected? Yes, it was. He may not be exceptionally gifted in the art of wordplay as Dandelion was, never having told anyone he loved them – let alone, _meant_ it – unless it was Yennefer that night on the Isle of Thanedd, a whole lifetime ago now. But the days with Yennefer were long past. As they were with Triss. And in both of those instances, in both of those ages past, it was nothing more than mere carnal attraction; lust. An altogether different kind of love. It also didn’t mean that he was entirely oblivious to what he saw in the hidden glances Regis would often sneak his way, or the way the vampire would always have his back, no matter what. The way they laughed and talked, the smiles, the tight embraces… the way that vampire and witcher could relax and see no reason to hide themselves and their true natures for there was no threat to either of them in each other’s company. And the way the gaping hole in his chest burnt and bled when he saw Regis burn and bleed in the hands of Vilgefortz.

He didn’t know if he could…

“I don’t know if I can…”  

Regis nodded, a knowing smile touching his lips. He looked tired.

“As I thought. You can relax, Geralt. I am not asking for reciprocation. I don’t consider myself to be that selfish.” He turned again and walked towards the direction of the estate, his steps near silent on the grassy path. “Come. It will be dawn soon and I would very much prefer you to leave Toussaint alive and in one piece, rather than being hacked to death by rogue knights errant when they catch you meandering by the crossroads.”

The further away he walked, the more and more Geralt felt his chest tighten. He slapped a hand to his brow, gritting his teeth against the uncomfortable sensation – and the consuming belief that he had done something very, very wrong. He cursed quietly under his breath. Then out loud.

_“Damn it.”_

His steps were loud compared to the softness of Regis’ gait, and Regis stopped immediately in his tracks. He had just made to turn his head once more when Geralt was upon him; grabbing him not ungently by the arm, he turned the vampire around fully so that their eyes were locking. The confused expression on his friend’s face was only visible for but an instant until realisation – and the faintest hint of hope – dawned in his dark eyes.

When their lips met it was an unexpectedly soft sensation, Geralt’s lips chapped and cracked from the constant exposure to the elements of his work but warm and caressing Regis’ own with a tenderness that the vampire almost wouldn’t have expected the witcher to possess. He melted into that caress, his eyes closing as he pressed his mouth closer to Geralt’s own, feeling the man under his slow touch as he raised his hands first to circle upon his shoulders, then eventually searching for the back of his neck when Geralt merely answered by stepping closer.

The unbearable ache in both their chests ceased, if but for a moment. And when one kiss slowly ended and another began, Geralt tightening his grip ever so slightly upon Regis’ hips, it was all they could both do to not elicit a shaken moan.

When they slowly parted, Geralt took half a step back. He watched Regis carefully, saw how he took a slow breath and swallowed deeply. His hands, which were still hooked around Geralt’s neck, twitched in his hair and grabbed onto a few idle strands as if for support. He looked shaken, but in such a way that made warmth blossom in the witcher’s chest instead of sending a cold, hard chill right through his very core. And if he was breathing a little heavily himself, waiting for his traitorous heartbeat to stop pounding erratically against his chest, well… neither of them commented.

“I think…” Regis cleared his throat softly and did his best to smile; it slipped into a fully fanged grin, “that was the best possible outcome I could have hoped for, as deeply surprised as I am.”

Geralt didn’t bother to reply. One move of his hands and he’d grasped Regis on either side of the neck and pulled him in for another kiss. And another. And another after that. His heart continued to pound traitorously all the while; the vampire tasted of mandrake cordial and he smelt of the herbs he always carried with him – a rich, wholesome scent – and Geralt found himself intoxicated, consequences be damned.

This time when he pulled away he kept Regis at arm’s length, if only to stop himself from chasing the taste of his mouth for long enough to allow him to gather his thoughts. Of course when he saw Regis’ hooded eyes and the tip of his tongue darting out to trace over his lips that helped matters considerably less.

“What made you change your mind?” Regis asked softly, following Geralt’s suit and taking half a step back himself.

Geralt stared at him. Just stared.

“Dunno. Don’t care.” Regis laughed incredulously at that.

“Am I to believe that you simply felt like pulling me to you and kissing me – with superb talent, I might add – just because you both did not know why, and did not _care?”_

“No,” Geralt quickly amended, “I mean… for fuck’s sake, Regis. Don’t make me explain it. I can’t.”

“I see. It’s because of that hurt, isn’t it?” And Regis reached out, placing a long fingered hand against Geralt’s chest, directly over his heart. He held his eyes, as if daring the witcher to look away. He didn’t. But he nodded.

“Yeah.”

Regis’ eyes softened.

“Thank you, Geralt. That’s all I needed to hear.”

Geralt frowned.

“What? I don’t get it.”

Regis had turned away again, continuing to walk down the path towards the estate.

“Perhaps you will, sooner or later,” he called over his shoulder. “Just as I did.”

Not in the mood for his friend’s cryptic words, Geralt followed him in the hopes of getting a reasonable explanation – one that made _sense_. But he stopped, catching Regis standing by the door to the front of the estate. He was watching him with those dark eyes, his hand resting upon the door handle. And just like that, Geralt realised that he could wait for that explanation, or more precisely, it would be one that would come to him naturally. Because right here, right now, _this_ was what mattered.

“I’d be a damn fool to let this night go to waste,” he muttered, more to himself than anything. Regis still heard him anyway, and his lips parted into another fanged grin; Geralt’s heart beat sluggishly once more in his chest at the sight – and joy – it brought him. And something else he had a feeling he was only just realising in full.

“Half of it has been wasted enough already, don’t you think?”

Geralt barked a laugh as he strode towards the vampire. He silenced him with another kiss.

 

*

 

The fire had completely died out, leaving the smoking embers and their last bursts of warmth to remain in the grate as two figures walked past the empty foyer. A door opened, then closed again, and in the dimly lit room that belonged to the witcher, the flickering light from the candles upon the writing desk and bedside tables cast upon the walls the shadows of the figures intertwined.

It hadn’t occurred to Geralt that he could be so capable of being patient, perhaps tender even, as he pressed his lips once more to the vampire’s, when normally such carnal acts brought out something rough, needy and animalistic within him. It didn’t seem to offend Regis however, as he chased Geralt’s mouth with a care as tender as Geralt’s own.

Each soft touch, each lingering caress seemed to spark something different within Geralt – a plethora of emotions that he never knew he possessed. Another kiss; a shiver coursing through his spine, so violent that he could feel it through to his fingers. A tightening of hands on waists, roaming slowly to chests and necks; warmth spreading through his core, making him feel lightheaded with the rush of thoughts through his head. The soft, pleased noises that the vampire made, the gentle moans of deep appreciation as he fluttered his lips into a cascade of touches upon Geralt’s mouth, chin, and jawline; ecstasy. Pure, unadulterated bliss that sang in his blood until he could no longer bear it, eyes opening and head falling back against the door, neck bared.

He dug his hands into Regis’ hips. Ran his hands slowly along the ridge of his spine through his clothes. Regis chuckled softly, pressing another chaste kiss just under the lobe of the witcher’s ear. He brushed rogue strands of Geralt’s hair away and cupped his cheek with a long fingered hand.

“I must confess,” and Geralt took pleasure, great pleasure, in hearing the hoarseness in that gentle voice, “that if you were any more enticing I would soon fail to be in control of all my faculties. As it is… I’m having enough trouble as it is. Geralt…” He dipped his head back down, capturing Geralt’s mouth in a kiss that took the witcher’s breath away. Bodies touching, chests pressed close together so as to ensure no space separated them, Geralt found it was enough to make him forget everything. Forget the duchess, Beauclair, the Path… forget his own name. He ran his hands along Regis’ back once more, digging deep into his shoulder blades and pulling him even closer. Regis gasped softly in surprise, then smiled and pressed another tender kiss to Geralt’s cheek before pulling his head back ever so slightly.

“You have an endearingly exasperating talent of interrupting my train of thought.” He chuckled again. Geralt grinned.

“You think too much anyway, Regis.” He made to pull him back closer again – already he could feel the slow, sensual stirrings of arousal deep within his belly, like a wild thing inside him needing to be tamed. He groaned at the thought, and at the press of Regis’ body so tightly against his own. Each kiss was like fire, each touch was like a flame. His body burned with it. He should be screaming on the inside for this – Regis was his _friend_. Let alone Geralt’s own association with the male gender was non-existent, and was something that would normally give him great discomfort to even consider. But with Regis all the rules and expectations seemed to fly out the window.

It was one of the things the witcher valued most dearly in him.

“Geralt…” He stopped, opening his eyes (when had he closed them?) to look directly into Regis’, hooded once more with the familiar stirrings of a lust almost equal to Geralt’s own. Regis gently circled his hip with a hand and held him there, and it was all Geralt could do to not buck against him. “Slowly, please. I can hear your heart, feel the blood pounding through your veins. It’s maddening…” He groaned softly and ducked down to press another kiss to the corner of Geralt’s lips, pulling away just before the man could reciprocate fully. He was breathless when he swallowed thickly and continued, “I would rather savour each and every last inch of you at a leisurely pace befitting those on long courtships, instead of hurrying into it all on the first night.” He offered a lopsided grin. “I’m old fashioned that way.”

Geralt knew what he was saying, understood it and _would_ have agreed, if it wasn’t for the hardness he now felt between his legs, despite how gentle their caresses were a moment ago. But it was Regis. And he always listened to his friend and respected his wishes, no matter if he would argue them first.

“How long? You may have eternity Regis, but I don’t.” It ached to say that, but it had to be said regardless.

“One day at a time, Geralt,” Regis admonished softly in an effort to mask the pain Geralt knew was there, “but if it were up to me… if I were so truly selfish, as I feel myself growing more so by the second, I would enjoy you every day of that eternity. Every day to kiss you,” he closed his mouth over Geralt’s once more in a slow, loving glide of his lips, the action eliciting a pleased groan from the man now pressed up against the door, “every day to feel you,” and he slid his fingers from hips towards the taut muscle of Geralt’s chest that he could feel even through his shirt, savouring the twitch of his muscles, the hypnotic thudding of his heartbeat. Geralt groaned again, his head falling back against the door behind him, “and every day to hear those delicious sounds you make… hear them and drink them all up…”

When Geralt’s eyes snapped open again his pupils were blown wide, the dilated vertical slits as mesmerising as his heart pumping lifeblood through his veins. Regis swallowed, moistening his now dry mouth with the tip of his tongue. His every nerve, every sense was consumed with this man before him, this man whom he loved like no other. He was an addiction that he would gladly indulge in, indulge and savour, one day at a time. As long as Geralt would have him. Which is why he had to take this slow, because as eternal as his lifespan may be – he could not tell the future, nor foresee how long this would last. The very thought was enough to crush him.

“Can you understand that, my dear Geralt?” He whispered in a voice which he almost didn’t recognise as his own, so thick with desire as it was. His only immediate reply was a sharp cuss from the witcher and a sluggish nod, before his mouth was seized once more by that mouth he could lose himself in.

“You’re not some whore, Regis,” Geralt growled against his mouth, “or Yen or Triss. I’ll take as long as you need. More than glad to.”

“A charming comparison I must say,” Regis retorted drily in-between each hungered kiss, and felt hands work their way towards the straps of his bag. Geralt chuckled and mouthed his way down Regis’ jawline, descending further still upon his neck and making the vampire close his eyes and moan softly. Each kiss was a fire, each touch was a flame.

“Never been good with words. You know that.” After having broken away momentarily to help Regis remove his bag and the small pouches of various medicaments, carefully placing them upon the nearby desk before returning his full attention back to the vampire, hands calloused by the hilts of his swords made their slow way down to the buckles of Regis’ tunic.

Regis huffed a throaty laugh when Geralt cursed under his breath, fumbling with the first clasp in his eagerness.

“Allow me,” he whispered, placing his long fingered hands upon Geralt’s own and guiding them to undo the first clasp, then the next, then the next after that. He smiled, removing one hand after they were finished to thread through the white locks of Geralt’s hair, marvelling in their softness as he brushed strands back behind his ear. Geralt contented himself with lowering his mouth, pressing slow kiss after slow kiss down the expanse of Regis’ neck, then lower down still to his clavicle when inch by inch further expanses of his skin was revealed. Pale skin, yet somehow warm.

When at last his outer and inner tunics were pulled off, revealing the entirety of Regis’ chest bared for the witcher and the witcher alone, Geralt felt his mouth grow dry in anticipation, in want. He delighted in the light smattering of grey hairs across his chest, and ran his hands over the taut sinewy muscles, noting that they didn’t even twitch under his touch. Regis was smiling at him, amusement written in his dark eyes.

“Come here,” he beckoned, pulling his hand away from Geralt’s hair and crooking his index finger forwards. Geralt did so, laughing when Regis used the momentum of Geralt’s forward step to swiftly slide his shirt up and over his head, throwing it neatly over the chair by the desk. The coolness of the room was evident in how his nipples budded, but he paid it no mind, instead rather taken by how Regis’ gaze darkened and how his tongue darted across his lips once more.

One look down only solidified the knowledge that despite his care, despite Regis stating how slowly he wanted to take things, it did nothing to hide the bold evidence of arousal between his legs only just barely hidden by his pants. Geralt groaned softly, gripping the vampire tightly around the hips, needing to pull him closer, push him to the bed, needing the _feel_ of that body against his lest he grow crazed by the small distance between them.

His medallion swayed on his neck with the movement of his steps as he guided Regis back, chasing his mouth in yet another starved kiss. He was just about to gently lay him back when the mattress hit the back of Regis’ legs, but the breath left him in a surprised huff when hands gripped his shoulders, turned his body round, and in a show of strength carefully kept well in check the vampire had sat the witcher down upon the edge of the bed, sparing no moment to waste in sliding onto his lap, hands splayed out upon the witcher’s chest.

Geralt panted, unable to stop the eager jerk of his hips upwards at the weight of his friend upon him, his member stirring in his breeches in aching need. What stopped him from doing so again was the glance at Regis’ face, the vampire gazing down at Geralt’s chest, mouth open slightly in a mix of incredulity and awe at the maelstrom of scars, cuts and injuries littering his skin.

He ran his hand carefully over each one. Geralt shivered at the touch.

“Your body is a battlefield,” Regis murmured, eyes growing wide. Geralt latched a hand behind Regis’ head, threading through his hair whilst keeping his balance upon the bed with his free hand splayed behind him. He watched, entranced, as Regis dipped his head down low, tracing the claw marks left from a wyvern upon his right breast with his mouth, kissing the length of the scar. He did likewise with the necrophage bite below his left pectoral. And again. And again. Each scar from each encounter on the Path being cared to with a love, an affection that the witcher had never known. Geralt moaned roughly, head tilting back once more at the feel of that mouth fluttering softly over his chest, making his muscles roll and twitch in thorough appreciation.

“Comes with the trade,” he supplied with another breathless huff, the feel of a moist tongue sliding across the scars left by the pitchfork that had run him through sparking a sudden jerk of his hips upwards once more. Regis lifted his head and straightened up, moaning under his breath, and dug his hands into Geralt’s back.

As soon as he did, he paused.

“Geralt… are these…?” He lowered his hands further, the tips of his sharpened nails dragging lightly across the puckered marks left by the knout the witcher had received from his time in Toussaint’s prison. Geralt froze immediately, seeing the distress in Regis’ eyes – a look that he realised he never wanted to see again for as long as he lived. He pressed a finger to the vampire’s mouth, silencing him.

“Don’t.” He kissed him. “Already told you - not your fault, Regis.” He kissed him again.

Any further argument Regis prepared to make was quelled, though with some visible degree of uncertainty. But Geralt placated him enough with his mouth and touch that the vampire eventually acquiesced, nodding and resting his brow against Geralt’s own. The uncertainty in his eyes soon turned into barely veiled amusement, however, when he noticed Geralt’s rather curious reaction to Regis having accidentally scraped his nails down his back when he shifted upon his lap.

Something rumbled low and deep within the witcher’s chest, a growl that tugged at Regis’ core and left his arousal twitching in want. He licked his lips. Geralt pulled Regis down to eye level, the powerful muscles of his torso and arms rolling as he tightened his grip in his hair.

“Don’t tempt me,” Regis warned lowly, seeing the look in Geralt’s eyes. Geralt grinned, teeth bared. Regis groaned and did it again, digging his fingers deep into Geralt’s back and dragging down – not so much as to draw blood, but enough to make Geralt _feel_ it. The witcher threw his head back and growled his pleasure as he held onto the vampire as if his very life depended upon it. Fire tore through his back, tore through his very mind.

Then they started moving, as one.

Unable to bear it any longer, Regis gave in and rolled his hips, hissing in wanton delight at the feel of Geralt’s clothed cock rubbing against his own. Bare chests slid together as hands clawed and necks were bared to hungry kisses and the damp caress of tongues. The slow grinding of hips soon turned into helpless rutting, and Geralt found himself pushed down onto the bed, a hand clawing into his hip as Regis moaned and arched his back.

He could only watch, only stare with heart pounding and blood rushing to his groin as he raised his hips, rubbing incessantly against the body near fitfully grinding against his own. His eyes fluttered and he bowed his head back against the pillow, gasping incoherent words in time with each buck of their hips. He couldn’t last like this. He was going to come, and he was going to come soon. If he was in any other state of mind right now he would have grossly berated himself for not lasting anywhere near as long as he knew he could, especially when they hadn’t particularly _done_ anything yet. But this was Regis. And he was exceptional in every way.

His heart fluttered, as did his eyes once more. The ache in his chest was back as he gazed towards the man above him, the man who was pulling such noises from his throat Geralt didn’t even know he was capable of producing. The man who was no man, but vampire, and whom Geralt thought of, favoured, delighted in his company like no other before him. He didn’t understand the feeling, but he suspected he was slowly realising what it was.

It was raw, consuming, intense.

And he was becoming addicted.

That was when he saw dark eyes locked on his own, and just one look into that face and Geralt knew that Regis understood everything going through his mind right now. And he smiled. He bent down, captured Geralt’s lips in a searing kiss, teeth and tongues and fangs clashing together, moans swallowed as hands gripped and tightened and hips ground faster, harder together.

Regis pulled away first, gritting his teeth and throwing his head back, a hand dropping down to press against the hardness between his legs. Geralt moaned at the sight.

“Oh, yes…” Regis bit his lip, panting and slowing the grind of his hips just enough so as to not finish too quickly. Geralt licked his lips.

“Thought you… wanted to take this slowly?” His voice was rough, gravelly with need. Regis shivered at the sound of it. When he looked down at the witcher again a wicked grin plastered itself across his mouth. Geralt felt his cock jump in the confines of his breeches.

“I am.”

He slipped his hand below the waistband of his pants, slipping his cock out. Geralt’s mouth grew dry at the swollen, purpling head, already dripping clear viscous fluid. He wanted that, he realised. He wanted it with such an intensity that it almost hurt as much as the ache in his chest.

But another time. He promised Regis he would agree to take it slowly. But when Regis dipped his free hand inside Geralt’s breeches, gently grasping his own weeping cock and thus pulling his member out to rub against Regis’ own when he enclosed his fingers around them both, he didn’t know how he could restrain himself next time.

“Fuck!” Geralt hissed, arching his back against the sheets at that nimble hand sliding back and forth, the rub of Regis’ cock against his own making him almost blind with lust. Regis was watching him, he could feel it in the back of his mind, and he turned his cat eyes to look back. He kept the vampire’s gaze as they moved, Geralt reaching down to tighten his hand around Regis’ own. He could see the desire in his friend’s face, see the desire and affection in those hooded eyes, and he gave in. He came, spurting his hot seed across their hands and loosening a long, shaken moan as sweat sheened on his brow.

Regis felt shaken as he followed suit, imprinting the vision of Geralt in the throes of ecstasy within his mind, not wanting to ever forget that image. It made him yearn, hunger for more, to see how Geralt's body would sway, how he would moan when he took him, buried himself deep inside. But he would wait, he would have to be sure that this is what Geralt would truly want. Then they would have every day of that eternity.

But as he pulled away, smiling and leaning down to leave a last lingering kiss upon the witcher’s lips before standing to find something to clean themselves up with, he felt a great content wash over him and settle deep within his heart. Geralt’s eyes, each and every time he had looked at him that night, no matter how long it would take for the witcher to understand it himself, were the eyes of a man in love.

 

*

 

Geralt had his arm draped across Regis’ back as the vampire rested against him, neither of them having bothered to redress themselves properly after Regis had cleaned them up. He could still feel his blood pumping, his heart pounding feverishly in his chest from what was one of the most intense nights of his life, even if it had ended up so very differently from what Geralt was expecting, nor was usually used to. But he didn’t mind.

Regis wasn’t sleeping, and he merely contented himself with pressing a soft kiss to Geralt’s neck as the witcher laid back against the pillows, gazing towards the window facing the east. It would be dawn in less than two hours; barely enough time to get some proper rest before they were set to leave.

It didn’t concern him. He’d made do with less often enough. Besides, as he looked back down at Regis again, tracing the contours of his cheek with his finger, he didn’t think he would be able to rest at all. Every sense was alert, was heightened after the post-coital bliss that sharpened every nerve in his body. And he felt a wholesome warmth wash through his chest, tightening like tendrils. He breathed deep, breathed easily, and grinned when dark eyes lifted to observe him quietly.

“Given how little time there is until the sun arrives I would say that trying to at least _pretend_ to sleep would do you some good.”

Geralt chuckled, tightening his hold around the vampire.

“Already done me a world of good, Regis. Believe me.”

Regis smiled.

“Am I correct in assuming that we will still be leaving for Novigrad, once your majordomo has sent you off?”

Geralt nodded.

“Damn right. And wherever else the Path takes us after that. Together or not at all,” he looked back at Regis.

 _Together._ That was a word which carried more weight than perhaps Geralt even knew. Regis shifted, leaning over the man below him with both hands splayed alongside his neck.

“I look forward to it. And each day after that.”

Geralt cupped his hand under his chin, tilting him down so he could reach the lips of the vampire he had grown so completely addicted to.

“So do I, Regis. So do I.”


End file.
